This year I resolve to be a better wordsmith by thinking outside the box and giving 110%. Now that Father Time has flipped the pages on the calendar, first and foremost, I promise to run things up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes them or, better yet, put things out on the porch and see if the cat licks them up. What I mean is I’m going to throw a few ideas on the wall and see if they stick. I resolve to take it step by step and day by day.
Let’s face facts. Last year I was thrown under the bus a few times. This stuff isn’t rocket science, you know, so I’m hoping by the end of the day to have marked improvement. It remains to be seen if this will be true going forward, but I’m as happy as a clam at high tide or a lark or a witch in a broom factory or a mosquito in a nudist colony. I don’t want to burn any bridges here, but truthfully my writing has literally been the best-kept secret on this blog. It’s epic. Amazing. Awesome. I don’t like to blow my own horn or beat my own drum but I’m an unsung hero. Oh sure, I’ll admit I avoided a few hot-button topics like the plague last year, but I’m simply trying not to shoot myself in the foot or bite the hand that feeds me. Sometimes I spun my wheels, but that was when I felt as confused as a baby in a topless bar. Wait, was that over the line? Go too far? Cross a boundary? Break an unwritten rule? Hit the point of no return? If so, I humbly apologize.
Although I have no excuse, truth be told I’ve grasped at a few straws because I’m a few fries short of a Happy Meal and not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Sometimes I feel dumber than a box of rocks or a bag of hammers or the guy who fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. I give it my best and do my all and jump on things like a hobo on a nickel but occasionally I push my luck and my true colors come through. I guess at heart I’m just a few guppies short of an aquarium. I think I have a screw loose. Big hat, no cattle — if you know what I mean. I think I woke up on third base and thought I’d hit a triple. You can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Get my drift? Smell what I’m stepping in? Feel my pain? I mean it’s as unavoidable as death and taxes, like white on rice or stink on a monkey.
If you are like me, you know it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to write this blog. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that some of the other members of the 12 are accidents waiting to happen. I mean there are a couple of elevators around here not going all the way to the top floor. I won’t name names, but let’s just say a certain someone isn’t quite the chip off the old block we were hoping he’d be. I don’t want to get down and dirty or throw any low blows or add fuel to the fire, but frankly there is someone here who doesn’t measure up because he hasn’t figured out that there is no I in team. He wouldn’t go for broke if his life depended on it. He’s about as popular as cigarettes on the Hindenburg. He’d mess up a two-car funeral. He has all the personality of a snail on Valium.
That’s all I got. I just want to say that I am pleased as punch to be one of The 12. I resolve to do no harm and above all to be a go-to guy and someone you can rely on in a pinch or in the clutch or when the chips are down. If what I write doesn’t do it for you, if it doesn’t hit the spot or tickle your funny bone or make you stop and think, please remember, once and for all – and if I’ve said this once I’ve said it a hundred times — that it’s not you, it’s me.
Thanks a million.